


solid

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Motels, Road Trips, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Castiel doesn’t speak for three days after the incident.Most of that time, Dean spends driving, solely to take both of their minds off of it. Of Castiel slumped in the passenger seat, a blanket laid over his lap, forehead pressed into the window, hair disheveled. Of the way Dean’s hands shake every time he looks in Castiel’s direction, the urge to touch almost physical. He drives without the radio on. He drives until the roar of the engine drowns out his senses. He drives until the sun gives way to night, and the motels along the roadside grow more inviting, despite the age of the neon and the potholes in the parking lot.





	solid

**Author's Note:**

> Now with art by [Nabat!](http://twitter.com/ghandoone)

Castiel doesn’t speak for three days after the incident.

Most of that time, Dean spends driving, solely to take both of their minds off of it. Of Castiel slumped in the passenger seat, a blanket laid over his lap, forehead pressed into the window, hair disheveled. Of the way Dean’s hands shake every time he looks in Castiel’s direction, the urge to touch almost physical. He drives without the radio on. He drives until the roar of the engine drowns out his senses. He drives until the sun gives way to night, and the motels along the roadside grow more inviting, despite the age of the neon and the potholes in the parking lot.

Castiel moves like a ghost, when he does move, to begin with. Slow, wispy, like he could fall over if Dean even breathed in his direction. He paces until his legs give out and Dean drags him back to bed, his skin flushed, scalding. Stripping Castiel down to his undershirt does no good, but it helps Dean feel better, just to be able to see his flesh, to know he’s alright. Or, as okay as Castiel can be.

Clouded eyes watch Dean in the middle of the night, lamps extinguished and the glow of the signage casting red lines onto the mattress. Dean startles awake at the sound of a semi downshifting, and for a while, he watches Castiel’s half-lidded stare. Tears fall, unobserved, and idly, Dean thumbs them away, never once receiving a thank you or even a blink for his trouble. He never expected Castiel to offer one, anyway; for once, he doesn’t mind. As long as Castiel cries, then he’s alive, and feeling, and mourning his loss in the most human way possible.

“You can tell me,” Dean whispers when Castiel’s eyes finally close, breath growing rougher, more pained. Gently, he covers Castiel’s cheek, feels him shake his head. “Then I’m here when you’re ready.”

Washington turns to Idaho, to Montana. They turn off onto I-15 and cross back into Idaho for the rest of the day, winding through the Rockies and descending into valleys. Snow melts along the roadside, and blue sky breaks through the clouds. Even with the heater on, Dean notices the mist of his breath, and Castiel’s, puffing like a chimney from between his lips. On a straightaway, Dean tucks Castiel’s blanket in tighter.

Castiel shifts, the most movement he’s made in days, and draws his legs up onto the bench. As the roads straighten out, Dean drives one-handed and covers Castiel’s ankle with the other, thumbing the knot of bone to keep his nerves steady. For once, Castiel rests, the lines on his face softening, the tears slowing to a trickle.

Looking at him, Dean’s heart breaks. Castiel won’t talk about it, but Dean remembers the blood and the crack of bone, the splinters falling away with every cut of the saw. He remembers salvaging the remains while Castiel howled in a tone so deep, Dean’s ears rang for hours afterward. The feathers sit in a box in the trunk, and some of the unblemished bones in a jar. “Just in case,” Dean repeated, heart in his throat while he plucked everything free, separated into piles. “Just in case. Just in case, Cas.”

Village Inn Motel features an onslaught of wood-paneled walls and bedspreads circa the 1980s, complete with blue backgrounds and gaudy flowers of every color. The TV, an old JVC with lines running through the screen, sits on the edge of a desk, and the refrigerator whines every time Dean opens it. Always expecting alcohol, but only coming up with water. Whiskey won’t help either of them, but still, his gut aches for it. Two days dry, but adrenaline keeps him from thinking too hard on it. They need to get back to Lebanon—Castiel needs to heal with his family, not with a broke-down hunter on the backroads of North America.

Here, though, he can care for Castiel in his own way, with no witnesses. Together, the light of the lone streetlamp lighting the parking lot, they sit on the sidewalk outside their room, Castiel draped with that same threadbare blanket, Dean wearing Castiel’s coat. It smells like him, like holy wrath and sage, like things Dean can’t even name. He sits closer than he needs to, and at some point, he drapes an arm around Castiel’s shoulder, dragging them flush, Castiel’s head listlessly propped up on Dean’s shoulder.

A chill rests still in the air, biting at any skin visible. Occasionally, the wind blows, and dirt skips across the lot, scattering and dispersing. Faintly, Castiel shivers, and Dean drags him even closer, whispering a prayer in his hair. His hair smells like fake oranges, and water clings vainly behind his ears. Dean just breathes him in, familiarizing himself with just how human Castiel is sometimes, how he’s always felt. Warm, solid, a rock.

That night, Dean never lets Castiel go, sleeps with his arm draped around Castiel’s waist, while Castiel weeps, head tucked under his chin, trembling despite the warmth of the heater and the blankets spread over their bodies. No cars disturb them, no one bangs on the walls. It feels like home.

Here, Dean knows he’s in love.

I-80 winds through the Rockies and into Wyoming. Snow falls, not enough to cover the roads, but enough to dust the windshield and to put his wipers to work. Dean’s heart pounds, lodged in his throat the entire way. Not unlike every day, but he notices it more acutely here, trapped within the confines of his car with a broken angel, traversing the country from Spokane to Lebanon.

Several times, Dean watches Castiel open his mouth to say something, but the words never come. He’s trying, though—that’s what counts, that Castiel is trying. “You don’t gotta say anything,” Dean rumbles, his voice rasping from disuse. No use talking when Castiel can’t answer, and no use talking when he doesn’t have anything to say. Apologies won’t work—it wasn’t his fault, or Castiel’s, what happened. Neither of them could’ve anticipated it, but still, guilt sits heavy in his gut. A life spent taking everything to heart, of blaming himself for things he never could’ve prevented in the first place.

Shouldering the blame is what he does best, even when it’s not his own.

Dean buys a soft pretzel for Castiel at a truck stop, just entering Colorado. Not because he’ll eat it, but just to let Castiel know he’s still here, that he doesn’t plan to leave. While they drive, Castiel picks off the salt and places it on his tongue, leaving the rest of it untouched. Dean takes bites the closer they get to their destination, staving off the sudden hunger; his attention solely focused on Castiel, he hasn't eaten anything more than vending machine snacks in days. He’ll cook for them when they get home.

“It’s something to look forward to,” Dean says, mostly to himself. Castiel nods along anyway, a tear rolling off his chin. Unconsciously, he rubs Castiel’s thigh, soft, steadying; Castiel covers his hand with his own, holding on tight, and Dean threads their fingers together, until he forgets they aren’t just one person, but two beings, destined to roam for eternity, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

The Rodeway Inn looks more like a storage building, built like a box and lined with windows on both floors. Surrounding them is nothing but the Colorado plains and power lines, rows of tractor trailers making their way to the interstate. The Pizza Hut’s red glow beckons to Dean, and an hour after checking in, he breaks down and picks up a small meat lovers, just to stave off the gnawing pit in his stomach.

Three days without alcohol, three days without pills—three days without hearing a voice other than his own.

He picks at his food while Castiel strips, lying flat on the mattress, face turned to the ceiling. The television plays something in Spanish, and neither of them bother to change the channel. All it is is white noise in his ears, muting the traffic and their neighbor’s increasingly loud conversation. Not yelling, but close.

“I need help,” Castiel says, voice absolutely shot—and Dean is across the room before he can stop himself.

Dean knees his way across the bed, kneeling at Castiel’s side while Castiel sits up, strips the shirt off his back. Gingerly, he traces his fingers over the mangled slit over Castiel’s right shoulder. Healed, but veining streaks down his back, bruised green and black. It’ll fade, but not for a while. And until then, it’s all they’ll remember, the moment Dean touched him—the real him—for the first time.

“You did what you could,” Castiel tries again, wetter this time, gasping. Dean steadies him with a hand to his shoulder, digging his nails in. “You did everything I told you,” he continues, and grabs Dean’s hand, shivering fingers clinging, clutching. “You did nothing wrong, and I—”

“No.” Dean stops him, forehead pressed to Castiel’s. “Not your fault, you hear me? It grabbed the first thing it could, and there’s nothing you could’ve done. You’re an angel, Cas, and catching you off guard? Trust me, it ain’t easy.”

“I appreciate trying to help me feel better,” Castiel sighs, brittle, “but I wish it did.”

The air around them crackles, just for a split second, but long enough for Dean to pull back and watch a single wing unfurl from Castiel’s back. Pristine black feathers drape across the floor, several beginning to turn green and blue from molt, or despair. Whatever the reason, Dean strokes through them, softly, and tucks his face into the curve of Castiel’s throat.

There, on a shoddy mattress with the setting sun burning through the sheer curtains, Castiel breaks. He claws at Dean while he cries, and Dean holds him, whispering reassuring words against the cold shell of his ear. The curve of where his wing once was burns hot under Dean’s fingertips, the raised ridges of the scar almost blasphemous. An angel losing its wings is one thing: the mark of a fall, the evidence of a sin against their creator. One, though—losing one wing is just carelessness, an angel taken advantage of and left for dead.

No longer can Castiel fly, even if he wanted to. No longer can Castiel return to heaven, nor can he look at his siblings the same way again. His Grace is probably tainted, scarred just like the rest of him—irrevocably broken and bound to earth. And now, he weeps in the arms of a human, the same human who cut his mangled wing free to save his life. “You should’ve let me die,” Castiel cries, and Dean swallows down fear. “I’m nothing like this. I’m—”

“You’re you,” Dean says, wavering. His own tears fall, and he hides them, arms around Castiel’s neck. “I know it don’t mean much from me, but you’re you, wings or not. And however that is, I’m gonna love the shit outta you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Castiel says, almost breaking into a hysteric laugh. “I’m nothing, Dean. This is worse than losing both. What am I supposed to do like this? How am I supposed to live?”

Dean kisses him before he can continue, tasting the salt on Castiel’s lips, the heat of his tongue against his own. Castiel kisses like he’s dying, and Dean just holds him, steadies him, draws him back into his skin. His one wing wraps around Dean’s back, warm and heavy, feathers tickling bare skin. “Like this,” Dean whispers, kissing his cheek, jaw, eyelid. Full lips capture his tears, and Castiel licks them from Dean’s mouth. “With us. With me. You don’t gotta tell anyone, Cas. What happened, this is just between us, alright?”

“I’m scared,” Castiel admits, breath shaking.

Dean just holds him tighter, practically straddling his lap when he finally settles. “I know,” he whispers, lips to Castiel’s forehead. “Your wings aren’t you. What’s here,” he stops to press his hand over Castiel’s heart, “is what you’re made of, is who you are. I don’t need you for your wings, or what you can do with them—I need for you this.” Another kiss; Castiel claws his nails down Dean’s back, urging him closer, so much closer. “I need you with me. I need you to love me—”

“I love you,” Castiel gasps. Caught in the red light of the sun, Dean swears he sees Castiel’s eyes glow blue. “I love you—”

Their first time isn’t so much sex as it is aimless rutting, too enthralled with each other to do much other than just hold on. Sweat builds between them, hips grinding, lips and teeth catching on whatever skin they can find. Castiel’s wing trembles, vibrating with such frequency that Dean swears he can hear it when Castiel comes, a steady glow spreading through the feathers, bathing them in blue. And Castiel catches him when he falls, and cleans him of his release afterward.

Never once do they let go—never again does Dean ever plan to leave him.

Lebanon is only four hours from Limon. Sam and Mary are expecting them home at any moment, and Jack is probably waiting patiently at the front door for their return. Yet, as the sun rises and bathes the parking lot in gold, Dean can’t bother to drag himself out of bed, not with Castiel draped around him, no longer crying, his body cooled to a more normal temperature. His breath puffs evenly against Dean’s nape, eyelashes fluttering when he wakes. Their legs dovetail, and Dean holds the hand draped over his stomach, lacing their fingers together.

“I touched your soul,” Castiel murmurs, sitting up enough to look down at Dean. Dean turns away, burying his face in the wing crushed beneath him. Fingers grace his shoulder, gentle, too kind. “When I raised you, I touched your soul. I created you from the atoms of the earth, and I look at you now… Sometimes, I forget how beautiful you are. And I wish… I wish you could see me the same, the way I see you.”

Heart pounding, Dean faces him; he traces Castiel’s scar without thinking, and Castiel drops his head, eyes closed. “I don’t gotta see your soul to know how you feel,” Dean says, smiling. “I can see it in how you look at me. I’ve always figured, but… I’m scared, Cas. I’m scared of what this means, and I didn’t think I’d ever come out with it. We’d ever.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad.” Leaning down, Castiel kisses him, palm to Dean’s cheek, fingers tickling his ear. He tastes like morning breath, but Dean wouldn't have it any other way. “Thank you. You didn’t have to, but… thank you.”

“Whatever you need,” Dean says into another kiss, hand pressed flat to the scar, “whatever you want, I’ll always be here. I ain’t gonna leave you, not again, not… I don’t wanna lose you. Promise?”

Castiel chuckles, and seals it with a kiss. “I promise you, you’ll never lose me.”

Because one day, Dean knows he will. One day, he’ll die, whether it be by a monster’s hand or his own. Heart attack, liver failure, whatever comes his way—and Castiel will lose him, unless an angel takes pity and allows him back into the pearly gates. But Dean will never lose Castiel, not while he’s alive. Selfish as it is, Dean can’t bear to live without him, and deep in his soul, he prays that they’ll never once have to live apart.

“I fell in love with an angel,” Dean whispers, earning a hum from Castiel. “Outta everyone in the world, and it had to be you.”

“And I, you.” A thumb swipes over Dean’s eyelid, down his nose, presses over his lips. Dean kisses the digit, takes it in, pressed warm against his tongue. Warmth spreads through his chest as Castiel straddles him, replaces his thumb with his lips; his wing spreads, blocks out the morning light.

Dean is in love—Dean is in love, and for what feels like the first time, he knows in his heart, that he’s loved in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from but I wrote it at six in the morning in one shot! Apparently my sweet spot is right after I wake up, who knew? Certainly not me OTL. I should be working on Tropefest but weekends are never good for my productivity, except apparently for this. Anyway, I hope you like it!
> 
> Title is from the Eric Church song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
